


Flowers for Gene

by BristlingBassoon



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Atheism, Canon Era, Captain Nixon's giant bunch of flowers, Catholicism, Domestic Fluff, Florists, Flowers, Fluff, Judaism, Loss of Faith, M/M, New Orleans, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-War, Questions of Faith, Romantic Gestures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: That night in the dark, Babe watches the thin moonlight through the louvres falling across Gene’s face, and realises he’s a real dolt for not thinking to get him flowers before another man did.
Relationships: Edward "Babe" Heffron/Eugene Roe
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	Flowers for Gene

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during the events of Impulse Control - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667576  
> if you don't read that fic all you need to know is that Nix sends Gene a huge bunch of flowers for doing him a favour in postwar Austria.

It’s bigger than he expected.

The bouquet is so large that he almost begs the delivery boy to help him cart it in. As it is, he’s got a face full of blooms, wet spikes in his ear, as he carries the giant mass of flowers and crinkly paper into the kitchen. It’s so big it nearly takes up the entirety of their little formica table.

The delivery boy’s still waiting, hovering by the doorway. Silhouetted in the glaring sun.

“Just a minute,” Babe calls, finding his wallet. He gives over what he thinks would be a reasonable tip, and judging by the way the kid’s face lights up in a pleased sort of shock, it might be more than expected.

“Signature for the delivery, sir?” the kid says. Babe takes the pen with still-wet hands. The bouquet was on the leaky side, and the droplets on the form smudge the ink.

“Thank you sir.” Then he squeaks off on his bicycle. Babe doesn’t envy him his job in the heat.

The giant bundle of flowers is an almost ominous presence in the kitchen. It’s so large it’s like sharing the room with a giant animal. Babe doesn’t know where he’s supposed to prepare dinner, or where else he can put the flowers. Do they even have a vase big enough? Do they even have a vase at all? He rummages under the sink, then goes to the laundry room - a room he’s never used, never envied his mother the task of boiling up sheets - and that was in Philly, when at least in winter they were glad of the extra heat. In New Orleans? Forget it. Instead, he allows himself the luxury of sending out for the laundry, and the warm feeling that he’s supporting a widow woman while doing so. There’s a big tin mop bucket here. Looks like it might be the only thing large enough to hold the arrangement. He clanks the bucket out to the kitchen, cursing Captain Nixon as he does so.

Oh wait. He’d better keep the flowers as they are for the moment. Putting them in a mop bucket is only going to spoil the effect.

A vase! A big, beautiful porcelain vase, or cut glass maybe -

As soon as the thought occurs to him, the vision of a big vase, the kind you’d have in a swank apartment in a New York movie, he remembers that he’s got no hope in hell of getting down to Maison Blanche or one of the other stories on Canal Street before they close. Damn it.

He hangs his head for a minute, the vase in his mind’s eye disappearing like a magic trick. What would he do back in Philly?

He’d ask his Ma for one. She might have one he could borrow. Maybe not as fancy but she’d have something, or if she didn’t, she’d know someone who would. Might go next door and ask -   
The neighbours! Why didn’t he think of that before?

  
When he first arrived in New Orleans, he’d no sooner set down his suitcases and been swept into a tight embrace from Gene, when Gene steered him out the door, saying “come meet the neighbours.” Not much different to home, really, when Ma knows everyone on the street and three blocks either way besides, because you never know when you might need to borrow a cup of sugar or have a word or need some playmates for your little ones. It was especially strong in the depression. He remembers people going in and out the door all through his teenage years, sometimes bringing a plate of whacky cake, sometimes crying on his ma’s shoulder. He got a puppy when the neighbour’s dog whelped them, got a kitten when Mrs O’Halloran’s cat disappeared for a few days and was found underneath the house with a nest of the little things. Flew kites up and down the street with Bill and Joseph and Mick.

So he was happy to go with Gene and stand beside him, feeling a little damp in the New Orleans humidity, while Gene said “Hello Miss Mabel, this was my friend I was telling you about, all the way from Philly.” All up and down the street, doors opening, women with children peeping from behind their aprons, an old lady yelling at her husband to not let the dog bolt for the door. He was invited in for countless glasses of tea (cold tea, how weird!) and various sweet things - something called a praline, something called a sable. Many of the ladies said how nice it was that Gene had someone there with him after Tante Bouchard had gone so suddenly, and how nice it was to have some young men back in the street again, after so many of them hadn’t made it back after the war.

“I hope you’re handy,” one Mrs had said. “My husband ain’t up to fixing much these days. I might be calling on you to do a little plumbing if you don’t mind.”

Babe just grinned politely, saying he would, if he could borrow some tools. He didn’t bring anything with him from Philly, he left on that much of a whim.

So now, he doesn’t think it’s so bad to go knocking himself.

The door’s pink and peeling, the porch blue underneath, an imitation of a cloudless sky. Babe knocks twice, wipes his sweaty hands on his shirt.

“Well hello there,” Mrs Fields says, opening the door. “It’s young Mr Heffron. What can I do for you?”

_Babe, please_ , Babe wants to say, but he knows Mrs Fields will simply wave it away. He can’t even get her to call him Edward. Not that he’d want to.

Mrs Fields is short, brown-skinned, a habitual wearer of yellow prints - those small ones that look like flowers but aren’t. She has thin, crinkly grey hair and wears a big pair of glasses. He doesn’t know where she’s from exactly, probably from here. But he does know that she has a large, impressive hutch in her dining room, filled with all manner of glass and china.

“Mrs Fields,” Babe says, “I was wondering if I might borrow something.”

She fixes him with a stern look. Used to be a schoolteacher, that’s what Gene says, and he can feel a chalky teacherliness in her gaze. “Why, Mr Heffron, I can’t agree until I know what you’ll be wanting to borrow.”

“Well, uh, could I borrow a vase? A very large one?” He blushes as if his request is somehow obscene.

“What do you need a very large vase for?”

“I got a very large bunch of flowers.”

“Mr Heffron, why do you have a very large bunch of flowers? I’d ask if you were sending a bouquet to a lady, but if that were the case, you wouldn’t have need for a vase.”

“Oh they’re not my flowers,” he says, and decides that’s enough of an explanation. “But I need somewhere to put them until Gene gets home, and the only thing I have is a mop bucket.”

“You could put them in the mop bucket,” Mrs Fields says. “I’m sure Gene won’t mind.”

“Well, the thing is,” Babe says, squirming, “I don’t _want_ to put them in a mop bucket.”

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t. Well, follow me then. If you need a very large vase, you might need to carry it.” She turns and slowly heads down the breezeway to her dining room, and Babe follows.

He wouldn’t want to be a bull, thinks Babe, looking at the huge cabinets lining the room, because this is one hell of a china shop. Thankfully most of the things are out of knocking distance, but he can’t help being frightened that a wrong turn will send a crystal decanter or a porcelain figurine flying to an ignoble death on the floor.

There’s at least twelve vases in here that he can see, ranging from small cut-glass affairs to shimmering carnival glass, to blue delftware, to something that looks Chinese.

“Now how large is this arrangement exactly, Mr Heffron?”

He gestures with his hands.

“Well.” Mrs Fields looks about the room, opening cabinets, shifting large bowls and tureens around. “Most of these aren’t going to be large enough, but this might work.”

She gestures to a truly gargantuan vessel that he’d somehow missed. It’s not fancy, just white stoneware, and it has a lid, which he won’t need, but the plain design will probably enhance the showiness of the bouquet. Better than a mop bucket at any rate.

“Oh, that’ll be great,” Babe says effusively. “Thanks!” He reaches for the giant _thing_ and carefully eases it out of the cupboard. He hopes there’s nothing in it. She wouldn’t give him an _urn,_ would she?

“It’s a pharmacy jar,” Mrs Fields says drily.

“Oh. Of course. Well, thank you, if there’s anything I can do for you, let me know. If you need the spiders knocked off the ceiling or what have you, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Mrs Fields nods, and then smiles suddenly. “Give my regards to Eugene, won’t you?”

He blushes and nearly drops the jar.

Babe can’t wait for Gene to get home. It’s even harder to avoid watching the clock than usual. Come six, the door swings open and Babe rushes out in his apron, trying his best to avoid kissing Gene all over his face like an excited dog.

“Well hey,” Gene says, amused, “somebody’s happy to see me.”

He takes hold of Babe’s hands and lets Babe swing him around in the entryway, even if it means a few hats fall off the hatstand and Gene’s trench coat slumps to the floor. Babe gives into temptation then and presses a kiss to Gene’s left cheek, then his mouth, ignoring the protests that they’re just a hair too close to the door. Babe reaches up and ruffles Gene’s hair then, roughhousing playfully.

“What’s all this for?” Gene says finally, trying his best to move past Babe and further into the house. He walks into the dining room (ha, dining room, what a joke, empty of everything but a narrow dark sideboard which contains one dented silver christening cup, a few dusty bits of glassware including one whiskey tumbler and a pot-bellied decanter, and nothing else.)

“Oh Babe,” he suddenly says with great feeling, spotting the ridiculous floral urn perched on the sideboard as nervously as a wallflower at a dance. “Did you get me flowers? Oh, _cheri,_ that’s lovely.”

“They’re not from me,” Babe stammers nervously as Gene walks over and buries his nose in a bell-shaped red flower. “They’re from Captain Nixon.”

Gene recoils from the flowers as if he’s been stung. His face creases into a frown. “Captain Nixon? Why would _he -_ ”

Ah christ, he feels like a real fool, doesn’t he? Of course Gene would think the flowers were from him. Of course he’d be disappointed when they weren’t. And now he’s going to know that Babe’s too senseless to think to get him flowers. 

“There’s, ah, a card.” Babe waves at the little white envelope poking between all the layers of lilac-coloured tissue. Gene frowns again and dips his hand in as if he’s noodling for a trout. He eases the envelope open, takes one look at the card, frowns, looks up at Babe, looks at the card again, and then suddenly erupts into laughter.

“What does it say?” demands Babe. Gene shows him the card. He’s not sure if it’s Nixon’s writing, not having seen it before - it might be the florist’s, but the message is downright perplexing.

Babe rubs his forehead. “ _Thanks for pretending I had the flu…._ what does that mean?”

Gene goes a little pink at that. “Well. Might be a little too personal to get into. I wouldn’t want to betray Captain Nixon’s confidence.”

Babe frowns. “Now what’s _that_ supposed to mean? _”_

Christ, Gene didn’t take up with Nixon did he? He could think of worse people to spend a night with - Nixon at least seemed like he’d be fun and wouldn’t hold it against you or snitch on you to the MPs - but he always seemed glued to Winters, and it’s not as if Babe wants to think of Gene rolling about with one of his superiors. But he doesn’t want to ask either - Gene ain’t what you’d call a man about town, at least not that Babe’s ever seen - and it’s rude to accuse someone of that kinda thing based on a bunch of flowers, when flowers are what you give your Ma for Mother’s Day anyway.

“Oh, I covered for him one time when he was hungover, that’s all,” Gene says hurriedly.

“You think you’re breaking his confidence by telling me he drunk too much?” Babe raises an eyebrow. “Is this the same Captain Nixon who held onto a flask like it was his pet?”

“Well, there was something about Captain Nixon,” Gene says finally, slowly. “He and Winters, uh…”

Babe grins. He remembers the telephone call, Nixon’s reference to drawing curtains. Both on the same page after all.

“Seems they needed a talk. So I covered for him.” Gene sticks out his chin in a show of defiance that makes Babe want to kiss him again for being so loyal. “Never thought he’d send me a big bunch of flowers over a year later.” He shakes his head, bemused. “Also they appear to be in an apothecary jar.” 

“I borrowed it from Mrs Fields,” Babe says.

“Oh, I thought it was a clever reference to my current field of study.”

“Well no,” Babe admits. “I’m not that clever. Just I thought it’d be better than the mop bucket.”

Gene puts the little card down on the sideboard and smiles. Ruffles Babe’s hair. “Give yourself a little credit. You _are_ clever.”

“I didn’t go to Yale, like some,” retorts Babe, feeling too embarrassed to accept the unearned compliment.

“Who needs Yale?” Gene says. He snorts suddenly. “Were you thinking I was with the Captain or somethin’?”

“Well no!” Babe says, ashamed at his previous thoughts. “Oh, I should tell you - he rung me. That’s how I knew about the flowers.”

“That so? Well, what did he say?”

“He had us figured out,” Babe says. “Worked it out the minute he heard me on the line instead of you.”

“Figures. They didn’t put him in intelligence for nothing.” Gene doesn’t seem phased. “Ah, don’t worry about it, _cheri,_ ” he says, whispering a kiss against the corner of Babe’s mouth. “He’s a confirmed member of our particular club, and he ain’t got any interest in throwing us over.”

“He’d better not,” adds Babe hotly.

“If he tries to blackmail us he’s too thick to have gone to Yale,” Gene says. “We ain’t got any money, not like he does.” He grins again. “Why you thinking so ill of him anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Babe admits, “I liked him - I like him still! I just…sometimes I get nervous someone’s gonna go ruin it for us.”

Gene hugs him tightly. “That ain’t gonna happen. If he sends us a blackmail letter, I’ll eat it.”

That night in the dark, Babe watches the thin moonlight through the louvres falling across Gene’s face, and realises he’s a real dolt for not thinking to get him flowers before another man did.

It’s Sunday morning and Babe’s struggling awake, blearily watching Gene sitting on the side of the bed, bending down to lace his shoes.

“Ya going to mass?” Gene says by way of greeting.

“In a minute,” groans Babe. Truth be told he doesn’t much see the point anymore, but it’s important to Gene (and his Ma, whose first question when he arrived in New Orleans and called her from Gene’s phone was “have you found a church?”) He’s sure Gene won’t hate him if he doesn’t go, but they haven’t yet had the conversation - and he doesn’t want Gene to think it’s for reasons of slovenliness.

At nearly eight they’re out the door, down the road, ready for the morning mass. The priest seems alright, Babe grudgingly thinks. He’s in his forties and is neither too tyrannical nor too familiar with his congregants, not like some of the priests up north who made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As soon as Babe’s in the door it comes easily to him. He might grumble, but he’s genuflecting without thinking, and following Gene to the pew. He likes the singing at least. That, and the stained glass.

Once a month Gene goes to confession, but Babe draws the line at that.

On Monday, Gene packs his lunch and heads off to catch the necessary buses to get to the college of pharmacy. It would be more convenient to live on campus, for sure, but as Gene says, “ain’t no rule about deciding otherwise.” The house in town used to belong to his aunt. She’s gone now. Didn’t suffer too long, according to Gene, although Babe knows those six months must have been hard.

Sometimes when he’s in the house he feels a bit like he’s stepping on the lady’s grave.

“You think she’d mind about us?” he murmured once, when he found a delicate china cup behind the mugs, and realised it must have been hers.

“I don’t know,” says Gene seriously. “I never thought about it.”

“Tell me about her,” Babe asks. “Before.”

“She was a patron of the arts,” Gene says. “Loved a gallery opening. Friends with Frances Parkinson Keyes - used to write her all the time, loved having her visit. One of her best friends was an interior designer, very well-put together fellow,” he gives Babe a meaningful look, one eyebrow raised, “so I don’t think she would have minded.”

“Sounds quite a lady,” Babe says. “Wish I could have met her.” It’s a strange thing to say, given that if the aunt were here, Babe probably wouldn’t be.

“Oh she would have liked you,” Gene says warmly. “Everybody does.”

Babe goes pink and clasps at Gene’s hand.

He still hasn’t got a job, and he feels rotten coasting on Gene’s dime, he really does, but he feels so uncertain in this city. Nothing’s the way he expects it to be, and some days it’s a struggle to get out of bed. Part of it’s that he can’t figure out what he wants to do - there’s a bit of dock work he’s sure he could manage, or construction - but he feels listless when he thinks about it. He knows it’s probably just laziness, and hates himself for it, but Gene assures him that there’s no hurry, that he ought to take his time. He wishes he could believe him.

At the very least he can manage the work about the house, and he’s gotten quite friendly with the neighbours. Always there for an odd job, anything to help him feel useful. One lady - Jewish lady, Mrs Hirsch, even asks if he’d be happy to come be shabbos goy. He must have looked at her funny, but it turns out it’s just turning the lights on and off on Fridays and Saturdays, looking at the oven and such. Apparently Jews aren’t supposed to do that on their sabbath cause it’s too much like work. He’d never known a Jew before, at least not one that did that. Never asked Lieb about it, not like he ever spent all Saturday doing anything different from whatever the rest of them were doing, whether it was digging in or sitting around playing cards. Or trying not to die.

Seemed like that was most Saturdays.

It’s a selfish thought but he’s glad he wasn’t around to see Gene’s aunt go. Not sure he could have handled another death, even when it’s someone dying the way they’re supposed to.

Within a week, Captain Nixon’s flowers are beginning to brown at the edges.

In ten days, Babe declares them dead and goes outside to the yard to tip them out. He comes back in and begins scrubbing out the giant urn. He can’t help but notice Gene giving a little sigh.

“Everything alright?” Babe asks, trying not to think of how he’s echoing what Gene used to say during the war.

“It was awful sweet of him,” Gene says. “Nobody’s ever got me flowers before.”

Babe tries not to frown.

From what he’s heard, Gene’s in some way responsible for Nixon’s current happiness, and the flowers were just his way of trying to thank him. Just - it takes a certain kind of man to think to buy someone flowers, and Babe realises he’s fallen far short of that goal.

He gives Gene a kiss instead, and from the way that Gene closes his eyes and breathes against his mouth, sweet as any girl in the pictures, he knows that it’s worth something at least. And besides, there’s other things he can do - things they can’t show at the pictures.

“Tonight,” Gene whispers, cheek curving into a smile. “I gotta go to class.”

“Tonight,” Babe agrees, although it’s Friday and he’ll be at the Hirsch’s, turning the lights off. After. Plenty of time. Those two go to bed pretty early after all. “Right then. Better run or you’ll miss the bus.”

He puts his hand on the small of Gene’s back, giving him a little joking push towards the door. Gene protests and giggles, but finally makes a break for it, racing down the road to catch the bus, holding onto his hat with one hand, jacket tails flapping. 

Ain’t he special, Babe thinks, and dries off the pharmacy jar.

Try as he might he can’t stop thinking about the flowers, and how they made Gene’s face light up. No sense fussing over it, he tells himself sternly. If it bothers you that damn much, get him flowers yourself.

He thinks about asking Mrs Fields for advice when he drops off the urn, or ringing up his Ma, whom he’s sure would be all-too delighted to pause her mending and mopping to tell him about what blooms to get, but then there’d be all the questions about who the flowers were _for_. Living with Gene might not be too suspect for now - _oh, that nice young man_ \- but getting him a great big bouquet might raise further scrutiny. He’s not going on an ocean liner, nor is he an actor on opening night, and there’s no other good reason to get a man flowers, especially since his Ma might even frown on spending money on flowers at all.

Instead, he catches the bus into town. He’s sure there has to be a florist somewhere about. He walks past the tourist spots, walks past a beignet stall, tries to resist buying one and fails, walks around the market getting powdered sugar all over himself, realises a bit too late that it might have made more sense to just look in the directory first.

He turns back to the beignet seller.

“May I help you sir?”

“Do you know if there’s a florist round here?”

The seller nods, raises a broad arm and points. “Just up that street there, sir.” She gives him a tired smile.

“Thank you ma’am,” he replies, and sets off.

The shop’s small, neat, painted sugar-pink, with a big dark green awning, _flowers_ written on it in loopy white letters. There are circles of water on the floor, a big marble-topped counter, rolls of paper and buckets and buckets of flowers. A bell rings as he comes in, and a neat looking blonde woman steps out from the back room. She’s wearing floral, Babe is amused to notice.

“Well hello there,” the woman says. “Are you after anything special?”

Babe says hello, but tells her he’s just there to look. The woman looks unconvinced.

“You _sure_ you don’t need anything?”

Babe shakes his head. The woman starts clearing stems off the table.

He’d had a fancy he’d get an arrangement for Gene just as big as the one Nixon got him, but there are only a few made up and once he’s looked at the price he blanches. He’d had no idea flowers would be so _expensive._ He could get Gene a steak dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town for that. Maybe he shoulda stuck with steak dinners as a sign of appreciation instead.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you look a little lost,” the woman says dryly. Babe turns around, flustered. She’s looking through a big ledger, taking notes. “Don’t know where to start, do you?”

Babe nods.

“Well, are you buying flowers for an event - a wedding, funeral, christening?”

He shakes his head.

“Ah,” the woman says. “For your mother, perhaps? Or are you calling on a sweetheart?”

Babe feels his face go hot.

“A sweetheart then.” He waits for further questions, hopes that she can’t somehow see something telling on his face, in his eyes. He doesn’t think he looks like anything other than a regular guy but some women have a way of being able to tell, and he still doesn’t know what they’re picking up on. “Do you know if she has a favourite flower?”

“No,” Babe says, “no, I don’t.” He registers the pronoun, relaxes, and then hates himself for it. Why shouldn’t he be able to get flowers for another guy if he wants to?

“Any colours she likes, any favourite scents?”

Babe shakes his head, a little frozen.

“Ah never mind,” the florist says in an understanding tone. “You aren’t the first young man who’s never thought much about the floral arts until it came time to get a posy for his girl. Here, let me show you a few she might like.”

She shows him a few posies of white, waxy flowers with dark green leaves. “Gardenias,” the florist says. “They have a wonderful scent.” The florist gestures to them invitingly. He leans forward and inhales. She’s right - they do - they smell like a white cloud on a moonlit night. But they look a little weird. They’re almost too white. They sort of glow, and look fake.

“Of course, you have to be careful with a gardenia,” the florist adds. “They turn bruise easily. Touch the petals and they’ll turn brown. Do you have to take them far?”

“On the bus,” mumbles Babe.

“Perhaps I’d better offer you something a little more robust,” says the florist, showing him another pail. These flowers have long spindly stems and they’re frilly. They remind him of little girls in easter dresses.

“Carnations,” the florist says.

“Like the milk?”

“Yes, like the milk.” She’s smiling. “Classic choice, but not much in the way of scent. Is she a girl that likes a fragrance?”

“I’ve never asked,” Babe admits. “But there were these purple spiky ones. Gene liked-“

Oh no. Babe has to stop himself from clapping his hand over his mouth.

“Your Gene likes lavender?” the florist continues. She seems unfazed by Babe’s slip-up.

Babe nods dumbly, heart racing, wondering why this perfectly ordinary lady doesn’t seem bothered by him mentioning a man’s name. 

“Lavender’s a nice choice for a girl,” the florist says, looking about the room, “but - oh, I might be out. If it’s the colour she likes, you could take some violets.” She smiles knowingly. “They’re very affordable.”

“Violets then,” says Babe, swallowing. Gene. _Jean_ , Babe realises. He thanks God for the existence of homophones.

“They make a bit of a poor posy, I must admit,” the florist says, sounding a little disappointed, “so I might add a few pansies as well. I can’t resist a little more showiness. Violets alone are just a little too meek for a young lady, don’t you think?”

“If you say so,” he says.

“They’re the dearest flower,” the florist says, as she bundles the violets with some round, silky cat-faced blooms, all flush with yellow and purple. “A real favourite of mine.” She smiles at Babe, and the smile is completely clean and free of judgment. “Gladdens my heart to help a young man buy his first flowers.”

When Babe gets home he realises he hasn’t thought of a vase. Thankfully this bouquet is a more accomodating size than Nixon’s giant (and expensive, he now realises) gift. He finds a little wooden vase in the sideboard, hiding behind the dented christening cup. He didn’t even know there was such a thing as a wooden vase, but there you have it.

When Gene gets home he’s barely in the door before Babe gives him the whole vase, just hands it over as if it were a mug of coffee. Gene’s face lights up in surprised delight.

“Oh Babe, oh - now I _know_ these are from you.”

“Do you like them?” Babe says anxiously. The bunch looks very small in Gene’s hand, almost pathetically so, like a boutonniere for a field mouse. Not much compared to the biggest bouquet in the world. Maybe he’ll be disappointed.

“I _love_ them,” Gene says, voice thick with feeling. He sets down the little vase and steps back to admire them. “Ain’t I a lucky man, getting flowers twice in a month.”

He could frame Gene’s expression, he’s that happy. Strikes Babe as funny that some little colour that won’t last out the week could strike such joy. Before now flowers just made him think of funerals.

The next week he goes back to the florist, who’s surprised to see him again so soon. “You’re keen,” she says. “Most men just do anniversaries and birthdays and mother’s day.”

“You tryna get me to _not_ buy your flowers?” Babe says.

“Well of course not,” the florist says, “but you seem a sensible man, and giving flowers is something that requires a little thought. They’re a terrible gift if perfunctory. You want a meaningless gift, go for chocolates.”

“Why give a gift if it’s meaningless?” Babe protests. He’s not used to such argumentative shopkeepers. In the department stores they tend to be a lot more subtle with their disapproval. “I want it to mean something. Gene’s real special to me, you know. Don’t want to give just anything.”

“Jean’s a lucky lady,” the florist says, with a flash of a grin.

He comes back the week after that too. He still doesn’t have much to spend. Gene gives him housekeeping money but he’s not going to use Gene’s own money to buy him a present he didn’t ask for. He uses the shabbos goy money instead. Good job the Hirsches keep paying him to do what seems to him a pretty simple task, although God knows why. It’s a job that could go to Joey, who lives next door to them, and he’s eight.

“If you’re in here so often,” the florist says, “how about you set up an account? You can do orders over the phone if you like, we do deliver.”

She pulls out her ledger, pen poised for a new entry.

“Your full name, please?”

“Edward Heffron,” Babe says, “although you won’t find many people calling me that.”

What a stupid thing to add, Babe thinks. He should have left it at Edward Heffron.

“Oh?” says the florist, raising her eyebrow.

“Well, ya know, I got a nickname,” Babe says.

“Oh, are you an Ed, a Ned, a Ted, a Teddy?” The woman smiles. “My nephew’s Teddy.”

_Teddy?_ God no. “Everyone calls me Babe,” he says.

“No disrespect, Mr Heffron,” the florist says, “but I’m not about to start calling you that.”

“Well, I guess I’d better start calling you something,” Babe says, “only I’m at a disadvantage. You never introduced yourself.”

The florist grins. “Mrs A. E. Richard. My name’s right above the shop. And on my cards.”

“Oh, right,” Babe says. He takes one of the cards. It has a scent to it, something that reminds him of baby powder.

“Flowers?” Mrs Richard says.

“You pick,” Babe replies. She chooses small pink rosebuds with a spicy lemon scent.

“At this rate I’m sure I’ll see a wedding announcement for you and your Jean,” Mrs Richard says, as she wraps the flowers in pale pink tissue.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Gene’s still delighted by the flowers. Babe’s worried the novelty will wear off, but every Friday Gene is so damned happy to see what he’s brought from the florist. Babe’s getting better at recognising the flowers now - before it was just roses, lilies and pink things and white things and blue things, but now he can tell the difference between a chrysanthemum and a carnation and a delphinium, and he knows that you can’t grow orchids just anywhere and that orange lilies mean hatred so he won’t be giving Gene any of those. Shame, cause he likes orange.

He buys a new vase too, from Maison Blanche. A plain, glass one that will compliment any bunch. He imagines telling his Ma he just bought a vase. He suspects none of his brothers will ever buy one in their entire lives. If they ever saw a cut flower they’d probably stick it in a beer glass. Maybe they wouldn’t even take out the beer first.

Mrs Hirsch says she’s throwing out a table with a wonky leg, but Babe can have it if he wants to fix it. A bit of time with a screwdriver and some dowels and the table’s as good as new. Babe puts it in the front room near the couch, and it makes it look like a proper room. It’s also the perfect place to put vases.

He fixes a sink for Mrs Aldridge, who lost her son in the war and doesn’t have anyone else to do the fixing. She gives him a doily, a frilly thing she says she tatted. Babe isn’t sure what to do with it, but he notices in Mrs Aldridge’s house, she has them under all of her vases.

Babe takes the doily and puts it on the table. It frames the vase in white lace, like a snowflake made of cloth.

He gets a green glass vase that someone’s throwing out. It looks real nice with white blooms in it.

“I’m not complainin’ or nothing,” Gene says, when he comes home that Friday to a bunch of pale yellow roses, “but why do you keep getting me flowers?”

“Because I love you,” Babe says, kissing Gene before he can even put down his textbooks.

“Oh Babe,” Gene says, “you don’t need to. Don’t want you spending all your money on me like that.”

“Well I want to,” Babe says fiercely. “Just so happens that maybe you’re worth spending money on.”

Gene goes to protest, but Babe kisses him again. That shuts him up.

They kiss a little more, standing there in the living room.

“Maybe we better take this upstairs,” says Gene, brushing Babe’s hair away from his face, his touch lingering. He finally gets his arm free from between the two of them and dumps the textbooks on the sofa.

“I need ta cook dinner,” Babe says, but doesn’t move away.

“It’s fish, it’s only gonna take half an hour to do,” Gene reminds him.

Point taken, it’s only five. Babe doesn’t need much more of an excuse to start unbuttoning Gene’s shirt.

“Upstairs,” reminds Gene, gently steering Babe out of the room. “I’m a civilised man, I ain’t doing it on the floor.”

“We got a sofa,” Babe says, feeling Gene’s hand lingering on the small of his back.

“We also got windows,” Gene says. “And no curtain on the living room side.”

They only make it to the staircase before Babe feels compelled to palm Gene’s ass.

“You really can’t stop yourself, can you?” Gene says, smiling. His shirt is half unbuttoned, half-untucked, and he hasn’t managed to undo anything of Babe’s yet.

“Well how can I avoid touching it,” says Babe, reaching behind Gene’s waist and squeezing, “when you’ve got the best ass in the whole damn town?”

“Cheri, it can’t be that special,” Gene protests. “How many asses you seen anyway?”

“Plenty,” Babe says, “we were in the army, remember? Or did you avert your eyes the whole time?”

“Tried not to look too hard,” Gene says, “but I did keep looking at one in particular.” He reaches down and squeezes, Babe yelps. “Anyway, keep heading up. I ain’t fucking on the stairs.”

“Lot of places you ain’t fucking,” Babe says, amused.

“Well how ‘bout we get to the one place I will,” Gene smirks, and heads on up.

The bed’s still unmade from the morning. Gene shoves all the blankets onto the floor, kicks off his shoes and steps out of his pants. He then sits down to take off his socks. “Not much of a way to make this sexy.”

“Everything you do’s sexy,” Babe murmurs, kissing Gene on the forehead. He removes his own clothes as quickly as possible, although from the way Gene keeps shooting looks at him, he might be depriving him of some of the pleasure of doing it for him.

Gene runs his hand up Babe’s chest, his searching fingers smoothly moving over his throat, over his chin, towards his mouth. Babe parts his lips for Gene to trace them. He can’t resist licking Gene’s fingers, and gets a wicked, dark look in return, Gene’s eyes liquid. He leans forward and kisses Babe on his stomach, murmuring against his skin. He hasn’t had time to take off his briefs yet, which grants Gene the pleasure of shoving his hand in Babe’s waistband and grabbing roughly at his ass. The sensation makes him make a startled, excited noise - having Gene’s hand so close to his entrance, feeling his buttocks parted - it goes straight to his cock. Left handedly, slightly awkwardly, Gene rubs at him through his underwear, admiring how visibly hard he is through the white cotton. Then Gene takes Babe’s waistband in his teeth and tugs down, and oh, the sight of him - oh god, the feeling of his nose brushing at his hip, the graceful curve of his neck, that smooth, silken head of dark hair - it might be his undoing. He feels a sudden urge to grab that head and shove it downwards. He knows Gene would get to work on him, might even relish the rough handling, but he can’t do that, not unless he’s asked.

“Oh - oh, honey, wait - what do you -“ Babe breathes, his hand on Gene’s shoulder. Gene shoves the briefs the rest of the way down and licks Babe’s thigh. Babe lets out a giggle at the tongue sliding over one of his ticklish spots.

“You want me to stop?” comes Gene’s voice, low, tingling against his skin.

“Nah, I don’t want you to stop, I just - wanna know what you wanna do - “

“This,” Gene says.

And oh - oh, he’s putting that tongue somewhere else now. Running it along the underside of Babe’s cock in a way that makes him want to shriek.

“Now don’t get me wrong,” Babe stammers, heart racing as Gene takes him into his mouth, inviting his cock into that warm, wet intimate space. “That’s so good, oh god - I wanna just, if you’re not careful I might -“

Gene slides his mouth free for a moment. “You wanna do something else?”

“Well yeah, Gene, I don’t want to finish without giving you a nice time. And I might not be able to do that if, well, you know.” He blushes. God knows why, they’ve been in this position before, and it’s not like the sight of Gene’s dark head resting on his pale thigh makes him want to take it slow. “You were just - I remember you saying you wished we had time to screw. Like, properly, mind. Not just the French stuff.”

“You don’t think this is proper?” Gene says, frowning a little. “Besides, you were all worried about dinner.”

Babe frowns in frustration. “Damn it, I just - I’m sorry Gene, I’m sorry I’m in a mood.” He steps away and slumps down on the bed beside him. Gene pats him on the thigh.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, just sometimes, I like to think of us doing it together, you know? Making love or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes if you’re just sucking me off I think that you can’t be getting much out of it - and if I come first then I feel like I’m too tired to do anything proper for you. ”

“Refractory period,” Gene says seriously. “Don’t worry, it happens.” He sighs. “Cheri, I do it cause I like it. Don’t think that I’m just performing a duty.”

They sit there for a minute and Babe imagines what it would be like if he was normal. It all seems a bit flowery in his head, a girl relaxing on the bed with a sigh and a little smile, waiting for him to get on top and do his bidding. Doesn’t really get the blood moving, when you think of your other half just waiting for you to get on with it. Now, would he be on top or beneath? He doesn’t much mind. They _have_ done it before, but during the war there was no time for screwing, not proper screwing, just a bit of hand stuff or rubbing against each other, which was hot in its own way, but now he wants to do something adult. Take his time. When they did do it, he really liked it, especially since the next day they didn’t have to be anywhere, and they could try it the other way around too - but it’s a process, and most of the time they’re too excited to put in all the preparation. It’s so hard to restrain yourself when all you want to do is put your hands all over each other, Babe thinks. As if to punctuate that thought he reaches over and starts grabbing at Gene, who moans, lifts his hips towards Babe’s hand.

“Well,” Gene pants, his hand gripping Babe’s thigh, “if you want it to be proper, how about you screw me?”

“Oh god, Gene - do you, are you sure you want to -“

“Yes, I’m damn sure!” He’s sounding a little cranky now, no doubt angry at the teasing. “You’re romancing me like I’m a pretty girl with all them flowers so how about you screw me like one?”

“You ain’t a girl, Gene,” Babe says, moving to kiss him, “but the good news is, I never had much time for girls. _You_ , on the other hand…”

Gene shifts, rolling over so he’s on his front. He moves his ass teasingly.

“As if a girl would have an ass this nice,” Babe murmurs, squeezing it.

Gene scoffs. “Girls got asses too, cheri.”

“As if a girl would have a _cock_ that hard,” Babe says, reaching between Gene’s thighs, feeling how hot and hard he is. Gene groans, shifting against Babe’s hand.

“I want you so much,” Gene whines.

“You want me to fuck you?” Babe says, rubbing his cock against the point where the curve of Gene’s firm buttock meets his thighs.

“Yeah, I reckon I might.”

Babe reaches for the oil Gene keeps in the nightstand just in case they get around to it, and it isn’t long before he’s got his fingers inside him. Gene moans beautifully, and the curve of his back as he shifts just does something to Babe, but he wants to see every little change on that beautiful face and in this position, he can’t get a good look at him.

“Can you roll over?”

Gene obligingly flips onto his back, and gazes at Babe longingly.

“God, you look so good,” Babe murmurs, touching Gene’s chest.

“ _You_ look so good,” Gene retorts, trembling a little under Babe’s touch. “I’m ready when you are.”

He parts his legs and lies there, flushed, cock standing up stiff and proud. Babe can’t wait to feel the brush of that silky, wet cock against his front as he moves on top of him. He crouches between Gene’s legs, puts his hands on his hips and guides himself inside him.

God, he’s so tight at first, the feeling is so strong that it’s almost too much. Gene whimpers, which makes him stop - _you ok? Does it hurt?_ \- but Gene just nods and says _don’t stop_ and he tries again, and the second time, oh, oh, he can feel that tightness ease as Gene lets him in, and can’t stop himself from crying out.

They take it slow at first, add a bit more of the oil. Gene plays with his cock, which Babe admires, and then before he knows it, Gene’s grabbing at his shoulders and pulling him on top of him, so they’re lying chest against chest, Gene’s legs wrapping around his own thighs, driving him further inside of him, and it’s so warm and tight and _good_ , it’s like a sacrament -

“Oh god,” shudders Gene, “Oh god, Babe, don’t stop,” and he’s moving under Babe, and he can feel Gene’s hardness between the two of them. He lifts himself up on his arms a little so he can see him, and he’s rewarded by the sight of Gene’s flushed face, dark hair damp with sweat, lips glistening, his head arching back with each thrust, so Babe can kiss his throat. Every moan, every whimper, a little movement on Gene’s face. And that mouth - oh god, he’s the prettiest, he’s so good, he can’t stop from kissing him, he can’t stop from telling him how good he is, how he’s the best, so good -

“I love you,” breathes Babe, feeling Gene so tight and hot around him, god, it feels so good to be inside him, to treat him properly like this. “You feel so damn _good_ and I _love you,_ oh god I love you, I love you -“

Gene’s breath is coming in shivery gasps. “You gonna come for me?” he says in a surprising growl that’s just so damn sexy Babe can hardly take it. “You gonna come inside me?”

“Oh god, _yes -_ “

and then he’s rocking against him, driving into him so hard it has to be too much, but Gene just grabs at him harder, moaning and swearing, and then he shifts in a way where he’s clenching and bearing down on Babe and oh god that’s, that’s it, that’s _it-_

He sprays then and fills him, feeling every pulse, every shudder, his thrusts growing wetter and sloppier, and then there’s wetness not just inside Gene but all over him as well, as Gene comes with a sob, Gene’s hot wetness all over them both in a way that’s filthy and messy and ridiculous and perfect.

He’s about to roll off but Gene’s holding him there for a moment, fingers entwined in his hair, and then they roll to the side and Gene’s hands are on his face and Gene kisses him again and again and again. “I love you,” he says then. “I love you, Edward.”

“Aw Gene, I screw you and then you ain’t gonna call me Babe no more?” he protests, but he can’t stop himself from smiling.

He’s pretty tired after that but they manage to have a shower, he cooks dinner with Gene’s help (just catfish, nothing fancy), they eat, Gene has a go at playing his aunt’s piano but then gives up when he realises it’s out of tune and some of the keys don’t work, Babe has a go but he can’t remember many songs and he was never much of a player anyway, and then he’s out the door at 8.45 to go and turn the lights off at the Hirsch place.

When he gets back, Gene’s brushing his teeth.

“You gonna turn in already?” Babe says, kissing Gene on the back of the neck because he can’t resist it. Gene grumbles, distracted from his brushing. He spits and rinses.

“Well, you wore me out,” Gene retorts, grinning at Babe in the mirror. “Nothing like getting fucked to make me want to sleep for a thousand years.”

“That makes it sound like I’m a boring lay,” Babe grumbles. “I hope I wasn’t that bad.”

“Nah, it’s good tired,” Gene says in a pleased tone. “You fucked me so good I’m just worn out, is all.” He kisses him and it’s minty fresh. “Should advertise it as an insomnia cure.”

Babe snorts, imagining the ad copy. “Can’t sleep? Get sodomised!” he jokes.

“Catchy,” Gene replies. “I can just imagine the jingle.” He yawns. Babe ruffles his hair.

“Time to get you into bed, sweetheart,” Babe says fondly. Gene moves off but stops in the doorway.

“Hey Babe,” he says, smiling sleepily. “Don’t stop getting the flowers. I love them.”

Babe could just about melt.

On Saturday morning they go shopping, which Babe hasn’t done for a long time. Not shopping like this. Clothes shopping, would you believe. Babe would have thought his clothes were just fine but apparently it’s not acceptable to go around in a suit if it’s too patched. Nor is it acceptable to wear a suit if it’s about five years out of style. “You oughta look your best,” murmurs Gene, before he pushes Babe forward into the menswear department. Babe gives him the evil eye but lets the guy measure him. It’s weird being touched by someone who isn’t Gene, and it’s even weirder that Gene’s there watching the whole time, especially when the guy measures his inseam with a cool professional touch that makes Babe jump.

“Well done,” Gene says, as they leave the menswear department. “You’re going to be looking a lot sharper from now on.”

“You’re an asshole sometimes, you know that?” says Babe, but he can’t keep the fondness out of his voice.

On Sunday he’s woken up once again by the quiet purposeful movements of Gene getting ready for Mass.

“You coming?” Gene says, gently shaking him by the shoulder.

Babe comes to himself blearily. “Gene,” he says slowly, “I don’t think I will.”

He waits for the argument, the look of judgment, for Gene to say _you can do anything you like but you can’t ignore God._ But instead, Gene keeps lacing up his shoes.

“Alright,” Gene says. “If you’re sure.”

He kisses Babe on the cheek and walks out the door.

In an hour he’s back, and Babe’s cooked breakfast. He watches Gene come in, pours a mug of coffee and serves him some bacon and eggs. Waits for the question. It doesn’t come. Gene just smiles and sits down, starts eating steadily.

Babe decides to break the silence.

“I’m not sure I believe in it anymore,” he says uneasily.

“Oh?” Gene puts down his fork.

“Well,” says Babe, feeling a flush creeping up his neck. “I just - after all the things I saw, all the things I did during the war - well, I just don’t think God’s watching out for us anymore. He’s either one mean son of a bitch or he doesn’t exist at all.”

Gene looks sad. “I don’t see it that way, but I ain’t gonna tell you what to believe.”

He still feels he owes him an explanation. “It never brought me much comfort,” Babe says. “Not before the war - it was just something I always did, made my Ma happy. Never thought about it much. And then during - what words can a chaplain say to give you hope in _that_?”

Gene’s quiet. Just turns his fork over in his hand.

Something hits Babe. Gene isn’t the only one whose continued belief in the face of horrors confuses him. “I don’t know how the Hirsches do it either.”

“Babe,” Gene says, his voice low and gentle. “I’m sorry it doesn’t help you.” He touches Babe’s hand across the table. “It was one of the only things that got me through it.”

Babe remembers him praying, crouched in the cold and the dark, mumbling decades of the rosary, St. Francis’ prayer. Never made much of a difference to the world around them, but it must have done something for Gene it couldn’t do for him. And they survived, in the end. So maybe God does look upon Gene kindly after all.

“I don’t want to take that away from you,” Babe says, “but I’m tired of pretending, that’s all.”

“Oh, Cheri,” Gene says, and steps over to embrace him. “You don’t have to.” He strokes Babe’s hair.

“You don’t think I’m a heathen or nothin’?” Babe mumbles into Gene’s shirt.

“The way I see it, God just wants you to live your life with goodness and grace. In the end, the rest of it don’t matter.”

They don’t talk about it after that, because really, what is there to talk about? They go out to enjoy the mild weather, and Gene suggests a trip to the Audubon zoo. They stroll about the shade, look at the animals, some of which they have in Philly, some of which Babe hasn’t seen before. He’s fond of the giraffes, with their delightful, awkward gait, so they sit outside the giraffe enclosure for a while, watching them.

“Here -“ says Gene, when they start walking again, gesturing at a little rise, topped with a monkey house. “Here’s the tallest point in New Orleans.”

“That?” Babe says incredulously.

“Well we don’t have any hills here,” Gene says.

“How can you not have any hills here?”

“Have you noticed any when you’re walking around?”

He hasn’t. The city is as flat as a board. “Must be good for bicycles,” Babe says. “Maybe we can be sickening and get a tandem.”

“And wear striped jackets like a barbershop quartet,” Gene replies, smirking.

“And sell pralines,” Babe replies.

“Aww, you don’t want to undercut the fine praline sellers of this city,” Gene says warningly. “They find out a northerner’s tryna sell pralines, you’ll be thrown into the canal.”

“I won’t say anything,” Babe says, raising his voice over the shriek of some kind of primate. “You can do all the talking, which I know you’ll enjoy. I’ll just sit there and look pretty and nobody will know I’m from Philly.”

Gene laughs. “As if anyone could get you to clam up. Especially when it comes to Philly.” He gives Babe a playful shove. Babe nearly falls into a garden border.

“You’re lucky that wasn’t the rhino pit,” Gene says.

“You’d be devastated if I got eaten by a rhino,” Babe says.

“Yeah, well I’m sure you wouldn’t be too thrilled either.”

Babe sees a group of children in Sunday hats in front of a striped cart. “Hey! Ice cream!”

Waving off Gene’s protests, he gets them both a cone. They sit down on a little wall surrounding a funny-looking giant, droopy oak tree with tiny dark leaves. It’s not the first one of those he’s seen in New Orleans. Babe reminds himself to ask Mrs Richard what the trees are. Sure, they’re not flowering but a florist must know about trees too.

Babe watches Gene lick. It seems hilarious that he’s allowed to do that in public, right where Babe can see it. “You’ve got a drip,” Babe says, pointing to where the ice cream’s melting and running down Gene’s hand. Gene licks his hand, looks at Babe and smiles in a way that suggests he knows _exactly_ what Babe’s thinking about. Like always.

“Gene,” says Babe, taking a bite of his ice cream. Gene looks over at him and winces.

“How can you? Your teeth -“

“Oh, I don’t mind it.”

“I’d just about die,” Gene says, continuing to eat his ice cream the slower way.

“That thing’s gonna melt, you’re eating it so damn slow,” Babe says.

“Yeah, cause I’m eating it the way it’s intended,” Gene counters. “It’s not an apple.” He’s finally gotten down to the cone now, and thank god, at least he bites _that._ “Anyway, you were sayin’?”

“Gene,” Babe says slowly. It’s not like he wants to talk about this now, but there’s a lull, and if he doesn’t say it now, he might never find another moment. “What do you say in confession?”

Gene looks at him. There’s a smear of ice cream across his cheek. Babe wants to reach over and rub it away with his thumb, but there’s no way it’d go unnoticed by the people around him. He sits on his hands instead.

He waits for Gene to lecture him about the seal of confession as if he doesn’t know how it’s supposed to work, but instead -

“Why’d you wanna know?” Gene asks.

Babe takes a deep breath and then coughs. Ice cream always makes him cough for some reason. Must be the cold. He eventually regains himself. “Well,” he says, wanting to whisper but knowing there’s nobody close enough to hear a quiet talk. “Do you talk about _us_?”

Gene frowns. “Why should I?”

“You really have to ask that?”

Why else would he have to go to confession so frequently? His Ma barely makes it once a year, and she’s as Catholic as they come, always asking the priest in for a cup of tea, always getting the deacon to come in with the eucharist if she has so much as a tickle in her throat or a pain in her back and can’t make it to mass that week. But the thought of Gene going in there, sitting in front of that priest - no matter that he’s not an old man, no matter that he’s not a fire and brimstone type, no matter that he seems welcoming in a detached way and not someone consumed with a need to know the details of everyone’s business - well, he can’t help feel a spike of nausea, a plunging feeling of fear.

He knows what they’re doing is technically a sin, and he guesses that’s fine for him because if God dumped him in the shit in Europe and was fine with making him kill, making him watch a young guy who hadn’t even had a chance to live bleed out in the show, his throat ripped apart, not even able to scream for his mother - well fuck it, fuck God for making such a stupid rule, if killing someone’s fine why shouldn’t he love someone? But he knows the priest would never agree and Gene - well, who knows whether he’s consumed by guilt. If he is, he’s never showed it, but he believes, and often that means you’re supposed to feel bad about sinning, even if it’s something you do over and over and over again.

“Babe,” Gene says, looking at him with this dark, steady, slightly sad gaze, his eyes lowered a little, hands resting in his lap. “That’s not the reason I go.”

“What else do you have to confess?” Babe demands, feeling slightly hysterical.

“The war,” Gene says, sounding tired.

“You didn’t kill nobody!” Babe spits.

“Yeah, but I was a part of it. I was a part of the whole damn thing and I might have saved a few people but I couldn’t save a heck of a lot of others, and if I don’t confess my part in it - well - what made me better than them? What made it so that I got to live and they didn’t? That I got out of it with my legs and my arms and my eyes and my mind and they didn’t? And then I feel proud I made it and that’s a sin, and then I feel angry and hopeless and that’s a sin too. I can’t sit with those feelings alone, and I don’t want to dump them all on you either.”

“Gene, that’s crap.” Babe glares at him fiercely. “You’re the reason we’re all still living, goddamn it - you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of.”

“With all respect,” Gene says, sounding so sorrowful Babe wants to stroke his face and soothe him, “you ain’t got the right to tell me how I ought to feel.”

“I’m sorry,” Babe says. “This was supposed to be a nice day and I think I just wrecked it.”

“Don’t you start feeling sorry too,” Gene says, giving him a shaky grin.

They get up and start walking, towards the elephants.

“Gene,” Babe says quietly when they get home that afternoon, a little tired, a little sunburnt, but happy enough. He hugs Gene as soon as they get in the door, kisses him (oh how he loves that Gene stands on tiptoe to do it, won’t let him dip.) All the things he wishes they could do where everyone could see it, because he’s not ashamed of any of it.

He just wishes he knew if Gene was.

“I’m sorry I keep bringing this up but I have to know.”

“What’s that?” Gene says, pouring himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher he keeps in the icebox. Babe still hasn’t got the hang of the stuff, he thinks it’s weird and upside down to drink tea cold, no matter how refreshing it is.

“I have to know,” Babe says, leaning against the countertop. “If you think that this is a sin.”

Gene puts down his glass. “Oh cheri, do _you_?” He looks awfully sad again, and Babe hates himself for being the cause of that expression.

“No!” says Babe fiercely. “I love you, and I don’t feel bad about it and I don’t give a shit if anyone says anything otherwise.” He gives Gene a kiss to punctuate this. “But I know the church ain’t keen on us, at least in theory, and a lot of people put stock in those teachings, and if you do, I don’t know, maybe you’re wringing your hands about it. Or maybe you see it as a venial sin, something you need to feel a bit bad about but oh well, we all have our problems, but I don't want it to even be that because I don’t feel bad about any of it at _all._ It makes me happy, Gene. It makes me so goddamn happy and if you feel anything other than that, well -“

_it’ll kill me_ , he doesn’t add, but he feels it.

He stands there, feeling hot and horrible and out of breath, waiting for an answer.

Gene doesn’t look away.

“The way I see it,” Gene says, slowly. “The lord forgives a lot of things, but I don’t see this as something He has to forgive.”

And he leaves it at that.

And goddamn it, that’s more than enough.

Babe wipes away a tear, kisses Gene again, realises he’s a little misty about the eyes too, gives him a tight hug that lasts for ages, until Babe breaks away and says “I guess I’d better start thinking ‘bout dinner.”

“I’ll help,” Gene says.

The yellow roses are still fresh in their vase but for some reason, Babe can’t wait until Friday.

When he arrives at the florist, he sees Mrs Richard in the window, posting up a handwritten sign in the corner. Help Wanted.   
He’s never thought about it, but he realises that the whole time he’s been there, he’s never seen another person working in the shop. Still on the other side of the street, Babe steps back and looks up to the sign over the awning. It reads MRs A. E. RICHARD, FLORIST. The S has been hastily painted in, an amateur job rather than a signwriter, even though the would-be letterer has done a reasonable job at matching the paint.

He walks over. Mrs Richard looks up as he arrives, stepping down from the window surround. She smiles, wipes her hands on her apron.

“What brings you here, Mr Heffron? I don’t usually see you this early in the week.”

“Well, I’m not really sure,” Babe admits. “But now I’m here -“

“Flowers for your Jean?” Mrs Richard says, smiling.

“Actually,” Babe clears his throat. “I was wondering about the sign you just stuck up.”

“Oh,” says Mrs Richard, her face slightly pained. “Unfortunately my assistant broke his wrist over the weekend. Slipped on a spilled drink at a party, hit the tile pretty hard. He sent word over last night, and I’ve been wondering what to do since.” She looks around the shop - Babe follows her eyes and notices that there aren’t nearly as many flowers as usual. “He’ll be fine of course, but not for a good few months.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Babe says. “I didn’t actually know you had an assistant,” he admits.

“Oh, he’s gone home by the time you arrive,” Mrs Richard says. “He gets up very early to help me at the market, I do the bids, he loads the van, then he does larger deliveries - big floral centrepieces for weddings and so on. I have a boy to help with the smaller ones that can be carried by bicycle. Then my assistant goes home at lunch, and I stay here until five.” She looks at him curiously. “What about you, Mr Heffron? I haven’t actually asked what you do. I thought Friday might have been a half-day for you, and yet here you are.”

“I don’t,” Babe says awkwardly. “I mean I don’t do anything.”

“You don’t do anything?” Mrs Richard raises a sculpted eyebrow. “Mr Heffron, that can’t be true. Everyone does _something._ ”

“Well, I was in the army once,” Babe says, hoping that she won’t ask much more of it.

“So was my husband.” She smiles sadly. “He used to be the florist here. Would you know it, when I realised he wasn’t going to come back, there was a labour shortage and I couldn’t get anyone to repaint the damn sign.” She laughs humourlessly. “I had to get up there on a ladder and do it myself.”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Babe futilely. He waits to see if he can think of a better condolence for a man he’s never met, but the words don’t come to him.

“Don’t fuss, Mr Heffron, it doesn’t suit you,” Mrs Richard says, regaining a little briskness. “So. From what I understand, you’re at a loose end.”

Babe nods.

“Well, you seem to have a head for the flowers. Sure, you didn’t know the first thing when you came in but it’s rare that you see a young man developing such an interest in so short a time. How about you come in tomorrow morning and see how you like it?”

“Oh!” Babe says, “well why not?”

“You’ll have to be up very early,” Mrs Richard warns. “Flower market starts at five.”

“I don’t have a car,” admits Babe.

“That’s fine, Mr Heffron. I’ll come by and pick you up. You shadow me for a while, I’ll show you how the place works, and then you can help me load all the blooms into the van. That’s what you’re there for in the end. There’s only so much I can lift on my own. Can you drive?”

Babe nods.

“Excellent. Well, I’ll need your address. Be ready at four-thirty, wear something sensible.”

He knows it might be a terrible idea - he’s not much of an early riser, but he woke up whenever the army wanted him and this can’t be much different. He can’t help feel a smile coming on, and hopes he doesn’t look too foolish.

“Good man,” Mrs Richard says. “Now, those yellow roses should last another couple of days. I don’t think you need any more flowers at all. Be off with you then.” She smiles, and Babe realises he might end up having a woman for a boss for the first time in his life. He’s struck by the irony of spending so long surrounded by men, and now living in a world where almost everyone he meets is a woman, with Gene the only other man in it.

Gene’s surprised when he tells him, but he must see something in Babe’s eyes, because he’s happy. “You won’t get sick of flowers, being surrounded by them all day?” he teases.

“You tell me,” says Babe, “you’re the one who likes flowers.”

“Well of course I do,” Gene smiles, “but you can’t tell me you haven’t developed a fondness for them yourself.”

“I’ll try not to wake you up,” Babe says, but of course, he does.

Over the week poor Gene gets more and more bleary-eyed, and Babe suggests that he should perhaps sleep in the guest room, a room still furnished like it’s the 19th century, with a high, old-ladyish bed, all made up with white frilled linens. Like sleeping in a trousseau. He’s willing to do it though, if it means Gene will get some more sleep, but Gene refuses, and starts going to bed earlier.

Babe reluctantly hands in his resignation as shabbos goy, cause he just can’t stay up til nine pm anymore. Mrs Hirsch kisses him on the forehead and gives him some swirly Jewish pastries as thanks. He’s worried about leaving her in the lurch, but Mrs Hirsch asks Joey’s older brother Charles to do it, and gives Babe a wave whenever she’s out watering the plants.

Every weekday, Mrs Richard shows up the house, truck lights shining twin beams through the dark. Babe grabs the sandwiches he made the night before, gives Gene a kiss goodbye and heads out. He does a bit of everything. Mostly picking up buckets of flowers and moving them from one place to another, but a fair bit of delivery driving too - huge arrangements sometimes, weddings, christenings and funerals. White lilies for the hotels. Flowers for the church - he still feels odd whenever he steps inside one, but the priest or pastor or minister’s never there, just a layperson there to take the delivery and sign the papers. At the shop, Mrs Richard even starts to teach him some basics - the principles of form and colour and structure and how to keep flowers alive. He does a lot of misting, cleaning out the workroom. Takes out a lot of trash.

The weekends are still their own.

Surrounded by flowers, he sometimes feels like he’s achieved the stereotype of being a pansy without even trying for it, and he wants to laugh, because what of it. He feels joyful. Free, somehow, even with wet hands. Untouchable. Delighted to be alive.

Gene’s due to finish his studies soon, and Babe’s thinking about what flowers he’s going to get him when he graduates.

And every weekday morning, Mrs Richard pulls up again. One morning, Gene gets up as well as Babe, puts on a robe and moves about the house while Babe gets ready. Then when Babe’s nearly out the door, Gene follows him onto the porch steps and briefly clasps his arm. Babe feels the touch linger, even as he’s walking down the steps and into the circle of the fading streetlight, as Mrs Richard leans over and opens the door.

“Good morning, Mr Heffron,” she says as always. Babe clambers up and puts down his breakfast sandwiches on the seat beside him. The truck pulls away from the kerb.

“Was that your brother?” Mrs Richard asks, moving into second gear with a jerk of her arm.

“No,” says Babe, and suddenly, in that moment, he doesn’t want to bother with lying anymore. He can get out of the truck if need be. He doesn’t need this job. He doesn’t need anything, actually. Just him.

Mrs Richard pulls up to a stop sign and looks at him.

“That’s not my brother,” Babe says, taking a deep breath. “That’s my Gene.”

He looks straight into the florist’s grey eyes, at the shadow falling over her face in the dark. He waits for the realisation to hit her, for the shock, the anger. No matter his bravado, he’s steeling himself for it.

Her face is still for a moment, then her mouth turns upwards into a delighted beam.

“Mr Heffron,” she says. “You’ve surprised me.”

And Mrs Richard laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a short piece about Babe getting Gene flowers but then I just kept writing! I hope you enjoy some fluff at this challenging time of the year, god knows we all need it.


End file.
